A Wall in Her Favour
Emma, why on earth are you getting involved in this conversation? Victor didnt even turn in my direction. He stood by the window with a glass of wine in his hand, shoulders broad, exuding the unshakeable confidence he always did, and he spoke quietly, almost gentlywhich was the worst part. Andrew was asking me, you know? Me. Dont bother him with all your ideas.
Andrew Seymour, our guest and Victors partner in some new logistics venture, stared at his plate. I could see he was uncomfortable from the way he shifted on his chair, picking up his fork though he clearly had no intention of eating.
I only mentioned how many empty spaces there are in the city centre, I said, steady and calm.
Emma. Victor finally looked at me, and I recognised the expression in his eyes, one Id learned to identify over twenty-seven yearsnot anger, but something worse: condescension. Youve given us all a lovely meal, the table looks perfect, everythings just right. Why dont you go and bring out dessert, hm?
There were four more people at the table. Andrews wife, Laura, shot me a quick glance, something like sympathy flickering across her faceor perhaps I imagined it. I stood up, gathered some plates, and made my way to the kitchen.
I stood by the sink for a minute, staring through the rain-splattered window at the darkness outside. The rain was fine and autumnal, blurring the lights of the neighbouring houses into smudges of yellow. I was fifty-two years old. Behind me, the conversation buzzed onVictor laughing, glasses clinking. I pulled the cake from the fridgethe one Id baked that morningand took it back to the dining room.
That was just how I lived.
Our house stood in a nice part of a big English citya place wed spent our whole married life. Victor had built it when business finally took off, fifteen years ago now: a large, two-storey house with a garage and a garden I had designed myself, because Victor was always too busy, and the gardener he hired kept planting everything in the wrong place. The house was lovely. Guests always said, Emma, your home is simply beautiful, such exquisite taste. And Id smile and thank themafter all, the taste really was mine, every curtain, every shelf, every currant bush at the fence.
But, of course, the house was in Victors name.
Id never worked in the way he did. After universitywhere we metI taught technical drawing for a few years at a local college. Then our son Oliver came along, Victors career started to flourish, we moved several times, he started hosting business partners at home, dragged me off to countless functions, always needing me by his side. I left my job. Victor said, Theres no reason to keep working for a pittance, Ill provide for you. And he didgenerously, never stingy. But each time I needed money for myself, Id have to ask or save bits here and there from the housekeeping.
I started making jewellery by accident, about ten years ago. I got stuck in the cottage during a rainy weekend, and discovered a box of old beads at the back of a cupboard. By evening, Id made a necklacesurprisingly decent. Another followed, then another. Friends asked for gifts, then someone offered to buy a piece. I bought the proper tools, started working with stones and silver findings. It became my space, my own tiny realm.
Victor treated it the same way he did my tomatoesjust another hobby to keep me occupied.
All your little beads, hed say when I showed him a new piece. Its just not serious, Emma. Where do you plan to sell those, at a car boot sale?
I never replied. What was there to say?
Oliver grew up, moved to London, got married, settled there. We saw each other for holidays. He called on Sundays to ask about my health; Id ask how work was. It was all very normal, and we loved each other, but each had their own life.
Except, I didnt really have a life.
I had a lovely home to run, a well-to-do husband, guests twice a week, charity lunches Victor attended for networking, with me always at his side in the right dress, with the right smile. I was his calling cardrespectable man, good family, attractive wife, knows how to entertain. That was work, I understood that. Just a job you didnt get paid for, nor thanked.
The letter arrived in Februarya regular envelope from a notarys office on Builder Street, addressed to a name I didnt recognise. I opened it at the kitchen table while Victor was still asleep upstairs.
It turned out my mothers cousin, Aunt Nora, whom Id met only a handful of timesthe last being at a funeral two decades backhad passed away in December. Childless, shed left me a building. Not a flat, not a patch of land, but a building: a disused industrial space in the centre of the city, a two-storey block from the 1950s, about three hundred and forty square metres. Long-abandoned.
I must have read the letter three times.
Then I called the notary.
Yes, Mrs. Harris, thats right, he said. Nora specifically named you sole heir. And, by the way, the land under the building is included. She registered it to herself in the nineties. Everythings in order.
Land in the city centre? I repeated.
In the centre, yes. Its a small plot, but well-situated.
I thanked him, hung up, and sat a long while with the letter in my hands.
I didnt tell Victor. I cant say why. Well, I can: I already knew how it would happen. Hed check it out, say the place should be demolished or sold, that he knew a man at the building firm, and itd all spiral offme ending up just standing and smiling while other people made decisions for me, again.
The first time I went there by myself, I said I was heading to see a friend.
The building stood tucked down a lane behind the old theatre, in that part of the city where Victorian mansions sat cheek by jowl with post-war blocks and shiny new glass offices. The lane was quiet, cobbled, with trees just beginning to bud.
The structure looked forbidding. Flaking plaster, boarded windows on the ground floor, rusting gatesbut the walls were sound. I walked round it twice, ran my hand across the brickwork, checked the roof. It held. I slipped inside through a side door that someone had carelessly left unlocked.
High ceilings, big windows with shards of glass clinging to the frames. Wooden beams above, rotten in places but mostly solid. Old tile flooring caked in dirt. Damp and the scent of old wood thick on the air.
I stood in the middle and looked up at the holes in the ceiling through which you could see the sky.
And suddenly I felt something strangenot fear, not sadness, but rather that sense you get on entering a place and thinking, Here it is. This is mine.
The notary was a pleasant chap, about forty-five, and the paperwork took just two weeks to complete. I collected the documents myself and stored them in a folder in the studio where I made jewellerya room Victor never entered.
My school friend, Nadia, worked as an estate agent. I rang her and told her everything.
Are you serious? she asked after a long pause.
I am.
Emma, this means money. A building in the city centreprime land, its a fortune. Do you realise?
I do. I dont want to sell.
So what do you want?
I thought for a moment. Then I said: Nadia, do you remember how we used to go to those gallery shows? When we were young, the old artists’ house?
She laughed. Of course.
Thats what I want. A space for peoplea place to exhibit, to work, to learn something. An art centre, as they call it now.
Long pause again.
Emma, this will require a fortune. Renovation, electrics, plumbing, everything.
I know.
Do you have the money?
Not yet. But Ill find it.
She didnt press me furtherNadia always knew when to listen, and when to hold her tongue. I loved her for that.
I started looking for money the way I knew howselling jewellery. Over the years Id made a great many pieces, not for sale, just as a creative outlet. Some of them I considered my best work: silver pendants with Derbyshire stones, hand-made bracelets, sets that had taken weeks.
Nadia offered to help. She had a friend who ran a little shop selling crafts and designer wares. We made a deal: Nadia would bring in my pieces, say they came from a maker who wished to remain private, and the shop would take a modest commission. The first batch was gone after three weeks.
You wouldnt believe it, Nadia told me on the phone. People keep asking if therell be more. Remember that ring with the labradoritethe one you didnt want to let go of? Sold in two hours.
How much for? I asked.
She named a figure.
I stepped onto the balcony because the room suddenly felt too small.
In three months I sold enough jewellery to have more money in my own account than Id ever dreamed of. The account was one Id opened by myself at a bank near the notarys office. Victor had no idea it existed.
Meanwhile, I found builders onlinenot through any of Victors contacts, but through some quiet meetings in cafés, in the middle of the day while Victor was out. The team I finally hired was small: four people, headed by Mark, a taciturn man in his early fifties who looked at the old building much like I didwithout disgust, only interest.
Good walls, he said, tapping at the bricks. Roofll need work. Floors on the ground level need patching. All new windows. Electrics, obviously, from scratch. Four months, if the work doesnt stop.
It wont.
Mark gave me a long, appraising look and nodded. All right.
Life at home continued as usual: cooking, entertaining, going along to Victors events, listening to talk of logistics and investments. Sometimes hed say something and Id nod, all the while thinking about window frames, or how I needed to build in high storage on the second floor for canvases, or what sort of lighting would suit an exhibition room.
Victor, of course, noticed nothing. I was always in the background, and the background never moved.
There was nearly a slip once. He found a receipt from a builders merchants in my handbagId been there looking at paint samples.
Whats this? he asked over dinner.
Oh, something for the house, I replied, level as anything.
Some kind of undercoat?
I want to do up the basement walls. Its damp down there.
He shrugged and went back to his phone. The exchange lasted about thirty seconds.
Mark proved a fine workmannever rushing when care was needed or lingering where speed was crucial. We dealt solely in business, never more words than necessary. Sometimes Id visit the site and simply stand there, with saws buzzing and hammers knocking all around. For the first time in years, I felt goodphysically, mentally. The air itself seemed different.
Nadia came to take a look in June, when the new windows were in and the walls finally straight.
Honestly, Emma, she said, turning about with wonder. Its going to be beautiful.
It will, I agreed.
Have you thought about what events youll hold? You need a concept, as everyone says these days.
I have. Exhibitions, of course. Local artiststhere are so many, but nowhere for them to show their work. Workshops, perhaps. Therell be studios to let for anyone needing a workspace. Maybe a little café downstairs. A books corner.
Youve planned it all out, said Nadia with a smile.
Ive been thinking about this for three years, I replied. Only didnt know it could actually happen.
In September I met Daisy. She was selling her handmade dolls at a craft fair, reading a book as people wandered past. Her dolls were extraordinary. I stopped, picked one up.
Did you make this yourself? I asked.
I did.
How long have you been doing it?
About seven years. She looked at me. Do you like it?
Very much. Im Emma. Im opening an art spacesmall, but Im looking for people whod like to work or exhibit there.
She set her book aside.
So the little community began to form. Daisy knew two painters. One of them introduced me to a sculptor, who, in turn, was friends with a ceramics teacher desperate for a decent place. By October, I already had a list of a dozen people willing and waiting for the opening.
Money was running out. I had only a handful of pieces left worth selling. Mark still needed paying for the final stage, we had to buy lighting, and I had to organise signage.
I sold the one set Id truly wanted to keepa silver and amethyst parure Id spent two years making. Nadia called a day later.
Emma, it sold an hour after I brought it in. The buyer said shed never seen anything like it. Asked if there was more.
There isnt, I said.
Are you upset?
No, I replied. And I meant it.
The doors opened at the beginning of November. No grand affair, just a note in a local group online, inviting artists and anyone interested. Sixty people came on the first night.
Victor was away on business that day. I told him I was staying at Nadias. He said, Fine, Ill reheat my own dinner.
I stood in that renovated hall, watching people wander among the exhibits, chatting, picking up one of Daisys dolls, and my hands shooknot with fear, but the way they do when youve wanted something for so long, and then, suddenly, its real.
Mark appeared, quietly standing by the wall, looking round.
You did well, he said.
Thank you. Really. Thank you.
He just nodded, as if it was nothing at all.
Everything moved quicker than Id expected. Studios let out, ceramics classes filled up, and the caférun by a young woman named Sophiebegan in December and immediately drew a crowd, not just from our group but locals too. The city paper ran a small feature, then another.
Walking up the lane one day, I bumped into an elderly neighbour from across the road.
Youre the one who opened that place? he asked, gesturing at the old building.
Yes.
Ive lived here decades. First time Ive seen somewhere in this lane worth going to. Well done.
I thanked him, heading to my car with a grin I couldnt stop all the way home.
Victor found out about the whole thing in Januarynot from me, but from a partner whod seen the feature with a photo of the opening, my name beneath it. He mentioned it at dinner.
Emma, he asked, after the guests had left, is there something youd like to tell me?
I was clearing away plates, moving calmly and unhurried.
There is, I agreed. Sit down, Ill make tea.
I told him everything. The inheritance. The building. The renovations. The jewellery. He listened silentlyhis face utterly unreadable, hidden behind his professional mask.
When I finished, he was quiet for a while, then said, You kept all this from me.
Yes.
Why?
I looked at him; he really wanted the answer, or thought he did.
Because if Id told you, Victor, youd have made all the decisions for me. It would have become your project, not mine.
Thats not fair.
No, I replied. Just like its not fair that in all these years, you never once genuinely asked what I wanted.
He stood up with his cup, pausing by the window.
Do you want me to say Im proud of you?
No, I said. You dont need to say anything.
He didnt.
We lived together for a few more months in that old house, but something shiftedquietly, softly, like the way ice thaws, soundless, slowly changing form.
Then came the ball.
The citys annual charity ball was always in February, a major event with local business and council bigwigs. Victor always attended. This year, though, the invitation arrived in my name tooseparately. A woman from the organisers rang to say that for the first time thered be an award for Best New City Space, and the art spaceNorwood Studio, named for my auntwas a finalist.
Will you be able to attend personally? she asked.
I will, I said.
Victor learned about the award straight awayI didnt try to hide it. He looked at me in a way that was almost unfamiliar, as you would someone youve known forever but now suddenly see anew.
Congratulations, he said, briefly.
Thank you.
I picked out my dress myself: navy blue, well-cut, simple. I wore my own jewellerya new labradorite ring Id crafted to replace the old one, and little garnet earrings.
We were seated at different tables. Victor, as a longstanding supporter, was closer to the stage. As a finalist, I was elsewhere, with the other nominees. I spotted him as I sat down; he looked over, nodded, I nodded back.
It was a beautiful old city mansionthe ceilings ornate, the chandeliers sparkling, the guests elegantly dressed, music playing, scent of flowers thick in the air. I sat tall, thinking how a year earlier Id have been stuck in the kitchen with someone elses dirty dishes, hearing laughter through the wall.
When our award was announced, I stood and made my way to the stage. My legs felt unsure, but nobody noticedmy steps were steady.
The chairman of the committee, an older gentleman with a warm voice, spoke about the value of creative spaces for the city. He read out my name, handed me a small crystal statuette and a brown envelope.
Would you like to say a few words?
I took the microphone. The room was silent. I saw Nadia across the hall, grinning alongside her husband. I found Victors face, tooexpression unreadable, somewhere between pride and something else.
I want to thank those who believed in this place before it even existed, I said, the artists, creators, everyone who walked in and stayed. And my aunt Nora, who left me more than a building.
I didnt speak for long. The applause rang out as I stepped down, clutching the little award and returning to my seat.
Nadia came over during the break and hugged me fiercely.
Did you see his face? she whispered.
I did.
And?
Nothing, I said. Nothing in particular.
Victor came up after the formalities ended, with the music and dancing starting.
Fine speech, he said.
Thanks.
You look good.
Victorplease, dont.
He was quiet.
We need to talk. For real.
I know, I replied. We will. At home.
The conversation was longnever a row, because we were too tired for fights, and in truth there had never been many. What there had been was something hardera draining stillness, living next to each other yet never truly present.
I told him I wanted a divorce.
He was silent for a long time. Then, Is there someone else?
No. I just want to live my own life.
Youre living your own life now.
I amfinally. And I want to continue, on my own.
He stood, paced the room.
The housedo you want to divide it?
Its in your name, I said, quietly. But the land underneath it belongs to me.
He froze.
What?
I explained. Years ago, the plot under our house had been registered by a relative of my mothersAunt Nora again. Id only learnt the full story when settling her estate; the solicitor flagged it and, on my request, a lawyer confirmed the paperwork was sound. The land was mine.
Victor stared at me in a way he never had before.
Youve known this for long? he asked softly.
Only since dealing with the inheritance.
And you said nothing?
I did. Just as you never told me about so much else.
He sat down.
We talked for hours moreno shouting, no tears. Just two tired, middle-aged people who had spent decades together and were now seeing each other afreshor perhaps recognising something long forgotten.
The lawyers took three months. The divorce was tidy and amicable. I let Victor keep the house, but only on the terms my solicitor set out clearly. The settlement went straight into Norwood Studiowe expanded the café and opened a small gallery on the upper floor.
I rented a flat nearbymodest, on the fourth floor, overlooking old rooftops and one twisted linden tree that bursts into blossom every spring, filling the place with scent that even closed windows can’t keep out.
On my first night there, I woke at three, listening to the quietno voices, no footsteps, no one breathing beside me. Just the occasional car and the rain drumming softly outside.
I was fifty-three and aloneand entirely unafraid. That, I thought, was important.
A year passed.
Norwood Studio was thriving by the next winter. Three full-time artists let studios, pottery classes ran thrice weekly, booked up for months ahead. Sophie transformed the café into a warm haven, all wooden tables and sepia city photos on the walls. Friday evenings, a jazz quartet played.
Daisy sold all her dolls and was already taking commissions. Wed become friendsthe kind you find at just the right moment in life.
Nadia sometimes said, Emma, you look tenmaybe fifteenyears younger.
Just well rested, Id joke.
I still made jewelleryno longer for money, just for myself. Evenings in my new flat, Id switch on the lamp, spread out gemstones, silver, toolsa quiet hour that belonged to no one but me.
I ran into Victor purely by chance in early December. I was coming out of a café near Norwood Studio; he was walking up the street.
He looked a bit older nowor maybe Id just never really noticed before.
Emma, he said.
Victor. Hello.
We stopped. The pause wasnt awkwardjust a pause between people whove known each other forever with very little left to say.
How are you? he asked.
Good. You?
All right. After a moment, he added, I heard you opened a second gallery upstairs.
Yes, in November.
Well done, he said. There was no trace of that old condescensionjust honesty.
Thank you.
He shifted, hesitated.
Listen, he began, Ive got a business question. Im thinking of leasing a space for a small showroom, in the city centre. Any idea whos managing refurbishments round there? People you can actually trust.
I looked at him. Something old stirred inside mea habit formed from twenty-seven years of answering, helping, being useful, thinking things through for him or alongside him. It was ingrained.
I smiled.
No, Victor, I said, gently. I dont know.
He looked a little surprisednot angry, just surprised.
Rightfair enough.
Good luck, I said.
You, too.
We went our separate ways. I reached the corner, stopped, and pulled my collar up. The air was crispjust frost and the pleasant bite of winter. From a nearby lane, the scent of pine drifted over from the Christmas tree market.
I thought to myself: Ill go to Norwood Studio later. Daisys hanging a new series tonight; therell be people, Sophie will bake as always, therell be jazz, voices, warm light pouring from the wide windows.
And so I walked on.
